When I was young, bank holidays represented the ultimate chance of freedom. It always felt like an unexpected bonus — a day when school was out and there was no obligation to do anything in particular. From dawn until dusk, a whole day was ours to do with what we wanted. Whatever the activity was to be, my siblings and I would approach it with great gusto.
By the time the seriousness of A levels came around, however, bank holidays were more often than not surrendered to revision and slowly came to be seen as a bind, rather than a freedom. Then through university, when all the days blurred into one, bank holidays became a rather forgotten entity; simply another innocuous day among three years of (perhaps) not enough time spent in the library. This trend continued into my early career, as studying for professional qualifications trashed any thought of
